“What?” she rasps, still rocking back and forth.
“Five things. Look around.”
Her eyes dart left and right. “The... the dashboard. The steering wheel. My hands. Your face.” She swallows hard, her voice quivering. “Blood. On your shirt.”
I glance down. She's right. Parting gift from the fight.
“Good. Now tell me four things you can hear.”
“The engine. My heart. Traffic somewhere.” Shaky breath. “Your voice.”
“Okay, good. Now, three things you can feel.”
“Your hands.” Her grip on me tightens, her hands clammy and cold. “The seat under me. My heart... pounding.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Leather. And... sulphur. It’s… it’s stuck in my nose.”
“One thing you can taste,” I murmur.
“Fear.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I can taste fear.”
“That's okay. That's normal.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my chest. She resists for half a second, then breaks. “You did so great.”
She shudders, teeth chattering, her face pressed against my shirt. She doesn’t cry, though. Adriana DiMicheli doesn't cry, not even staring the most dangerous, dire circumstances in the face. But she's trembling like everything she's been holding together for weeks has finally unraveled.
I hold her without saying anything.
Those romance novels stashed in her suitcase… the heroes who took control, who gave the women permission to stop being strong, who held them when they fell apart.
She's never had that. I can feel it in the way she's clinging to me, like she’s desperate for approval she can never get.
“I couldn't protect them,” she whispers. “Sonny. His wife and daughter. They trusted me.”
“They're alive. They're safe.”
“Because we ran.”
“No, because we survived. There's no shame in that.” I stroke the side of her face. “If we didn’t survive, they’d have been in much more danger.”
She pulls back, her red eyes coming to focus on me. Her face is blotchy. Wrecked.
And she's never been more beautiful.
“How did you know what to do?” she asks. “The breathing thing.”
“My mom used to get panic attacks, and I learned the techniques from her. I used them with my brother Gavin when he’d have attacks after she died. Those were really bad ones.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen. My dad was useless, too wrapped up in his own shit to notice his kids were drowning.” I pause. “So I stepped up. Someone had to be there for them.”
Her expression softens, her fingers lacing with mine where they rest against her face. “You've been taking care of people for a long time.”
“It's what I do.”
Her other hand comes up to cup my jaw. Her thumb traces over the stubble I didn't bother to shave this morning.
